


24/7 Service

by rhysgore



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Felching, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Daddy Kink, Rimming, a totally gross name for a really hot thing tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6855289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/rhysgore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no good reason for him to pick a fight with a stranger at three in the morning, even if the stranger is inconveniencing the hell out of him, even if he does seem like a complete asshole, and even if his shoulders look broad and muscular in a way that makes Rhys’ stomach do flip-flops.</p><p>-</p><p>"I see you taking the last of the thing I need from the supermarket and I am pissed about it" AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is in apology for all the other horrible shit ive done to rhys. sorry.
> 
> rhys is college aged in this (like 20-21) which makes jack somewhere in the range of early forties? probably? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s three in the morning in a shitty K-Mart, and Rhys is watching some jackass make off with the last tube of his brand of hair gel.

Everything leading up to this point has the result of a series of increasingly bad decisions. Accepting a bet from Fiona earlier that night that he couldn’t chug three Red Bulls in under 5 minutes, that had been a mistake. Actually doing it- another very big mistake. Thinking that the caffeine was out of his system when he threw up 10 minutes later? Absolutely a mistake.

Rhys had tossed and turned for two and a half hours, trying not to think about the fact that he had an 8 a.m. class the next morning, and then resigned himself to a sleepless night and decided he might as well get _something_ done, and since his hands were shaking uncontrollably _(both_ of them, which is how Rhys realized it must have been _really_ bad), any type of academic work or household chore which required fine motor skills was obviously out of the question.

So… grocery shopping. The list was pretty short, since his and Vaughn’s budget was pretty tight, but there were still a few important things to get, so he’d shrugged on a jacket over his pajamas, slipped on a pair of shoes, and headed out to visit the possibly dangerous but reliable 24-hour K-Mart down the street.

He’d picked up the essentials- instant ramen, batteries, paper plates, the look on the cashier’s face was going to be just great- and had headed to the personal care aisles to replenish his supply of gel, but had been stopped in his tracks by _another person_ who’s also at K-Mart at asscrack o’clock. In the hair products section. Taking the last tube of Rhys’ brand.

“Hey, that’s mine!” It’s out of his mouth before he can even think about it. His veins are buzzing with energy, from a combination of sleeplessness and Red Bull. The other man starts, and turns around.

“Is it? What, you called ahead and saved it?” He sneers, seeming more amused than genuinely belligerent, and wow, he’s all firm lips and nice cheekbones, and the strongest jawline Rhys has ever seen on a human being. Trying not to stare, Rhys glances at the man’s cart, and notes the fact that it’s piled high with what seems like every single type of snack food the K-Mart sells. “Tough luck, princess. I was here first.”

Rhys makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. Distantly, he thinks that it shouldn’t be that big an issue. If he comes back at a reasonable time tomorrow, after morning classes are over, the store will probably have restocked, and he can buy it then. There’s no good reason for him to pick a fight with a stranger at three in the morning, even if the stranger is inconveniencing the hell out of him, even if he does seem like a complete asshole, and even if his shoulders look broad and muscular in a way that makes Rhys’ stomach do flip-flops.

“Yeah but that’s… look, there are fifty or so other brands of hair gel here, why don’t you take one of those?” He takes a step closer, squaring his own shoulders and drawing himself up to his full height. Rhys stands an inch or two above the other man, but it doesn’t seem to faze the guy, who raises an amused eyebrow, and smirks in a way that is _smug_ and _douchey_ and completely _not attractive._

“Why don’t you?” He asks, arms crossing.

“Because- because-” Rhys struggles to come up with a good excuse, and tries not to seem like he’s fumbling over his words (which he is, but goddamn, people like this guy should _not_ have forearms that look like they’re capable of bending him completely in half). “That’s my brand,” he finishes lamely, face flushing.

The man laughs, shoulders shaking. It might be a little put on, and Rhys glares at him when he bends double and slaps his knee.

“You’re hilarious, sweetheart. Tell you what, you can have the damn gel if it means so much to you. It’s my _braand!”_ He mimics Rhys shrilly, and winks before tossing him the tube, and Rhys is so distracted by his eyes (one blue, one green, both ridiculously pretty) that it smacks him in the face.

“Ow.” The man bursts into laughter again, wiping imaginary tears away from his face.

“Oh, you’re _precious,_ you know that?” Rhys isn’t sure whether it’s supposed to be a compliment, or an insult. He isn’t sure he particularly cares. Bending down, he picks up the tube and puts it in his basket with the rest of his groceries, and turns to go.

He hesitates. The other man is still staring at him, chuckling lightly, and Rhys has everything he needs to storm out with what remains of his dignity intact, but he still hesitates, swallows, and turns back around. There’s just… something about the man, who watches him with interest as Rhys scratches his neck, and coughs.

His body is still buzzing, now with mostly adrenaline as he asks, “Hey, is there a bathroom around here? Or… something like that?” Rhys winces at the sound of his own voice, but at least it’s obvious that he got the point across. The man’s eyebrows raise, and he looks even more smug than he did five seconds previously.

“Damn, kiddo, you know that was free of charge right?” Despite the ribbing, he crooks a finger, and Rhys obediently follows him deeper into the store, heart hammering in his chest as he goes. He’s actually _doing this._ At three in the morning. With a stranger, in the bathroom of a derelict K-Mart.

Rhys shrugs mentally. He’ll take what he can get, especially from a guy with hands like that, and arms like that, and god, the more Rhys looks, the more he’s convinced that this is all just a _very_ realistic wet dream. It's best for him not to question how or _why_ this has all gone his way.

He gets to the bathroom and closes the door behind him to find the stranger looking him up and down lecherously, concentrating on his legs. Preening under the attention, Rhys blushes, and licks his lips.

“You got a name, kiddo?” The man asks.

“Rhys,” he replies, clenching and unclenching his fists. “What about you?”

“Jack. Just so you know what to scream.” Jack winks, and that level of unbridled cockiness and narcissism shouldn't be attractive, it really shouldn't, but Rhys can still feel his dick twitch in interest.

“You think you can make me scream?” He challenges, stepping forwards hands in his pockets.

“I don't just _think_ it, Rhysie. Now, be a good boy and bend over the sink, would ya?” Rhys does as he’s told, bracing his hands on cold ceramic. Looking up, he flushes darker when he realizes there’s a mirror right in front of his face, and he feels a strong hand cup his ass, squeezing lightly. “Damn. You’ve got some _curves_ back here, sweetheart.” Jack continues to feel him up, slipping underneath the elastic of his waistband. “... Are you seriously in _pajamas?”_

Rhys huffs in irritation. “You do know what time it is, right? I was _in bed_ before I came here. Pajamas are perfectly acceptable clothing for me to be wearing right now.”

He hears Jack snort, and feels air on his backside when his pants are slid down his waist, piling around his feet. It’s a little chilly in the bathroom, and Rhys feels goosebumps rise on his bare flesh, both from the temperature, and from the _special attention_ Jack is giving his ass and thighs, stroking them, groping them, grabbing him firmly by the hips and grinding _hard._ Rhys can feel Jack’s erection through the fabric of his jeans, hot and solid.

“Got some nice legs as well, Rhysie. Long ‘n smooth… it makes me wanna _bite.”_ Fingers trail up the insides of his thighs, and Rhys shivers. When Jack abruptly kicks his legs apart, Rhys falls onto his elbows, turning to glare behind him, pissed, but still incredibly aroused. Jack smiles back at him winningly. There’s a popping noise of a bottle opening, and Rhys feels something blunt and wet against his hole.

“You just _had_ lube with you?” Rhys hisses as a finger works him open. He’s not sure he wants to think about what that’s implying, but luckily for him, Jack is _good_ with his hands, stroking and pulling and thoroughly distracting him.

“Hey, the Boy Scout line of thinking’s got some merit.” Jack pushes another finger into him, and Rhys squirms, sucking in a small gasp at the stimulation. He pushes back, only to receive a firm swat on the ass. “Sweetheart, I’m flattered, but be patient. You’ll take what I want to give you, _when_ I want to give it to you, or you’ll get _nada.”_

Groaning, Rhys leans his upper body forwards, bracing his head on the cold metal faucet. Jack doesn't seem to be in any hurry, and it's driving Rhys up the wall, especially when the two fingers in him brush against his prostate, sending a stab of warm pleasure right to his stomach. The noise Rhys makes when Jack seemingly registers what he just did and does the same thing again is frankly embarrassing.

“Oh, _fuck,”_ he gasps. “That's- yeah, that’s-” He whines, and Jack laughs, short and sharp.

“That good, huh?” He scissors his fingers _just so,_ and Rhys can feel his knees threatening to give out, trembling beneath his overstimulated body as he holds onto the sink for dear life. “Hey, hey- any feedback for me here, kiddo?”

With not inconsiderable effort, Rhys pants out, “You asked my name, you could at least use it.” He moans lowly when Jack grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes _._ _“Jack,_ I’m-”

“You gonna come?” Again, that unbearably smug tone of voice goes right to Rhys’ cock, and he nods furtively. “Alrighty, c’mon then,” Jack growls, adding a third finger, and twisting his wrist in a way that has Rhys seeing goddamn stars, and then he’s moaning Jack’s name and coming equal parts over himself and the floor.

He feels boneless, and slightly woozy. He feels like kind of a mess. He feels exactly like he just let someone have their way with him while he was bent over the sink in a K-Mart bathroom. The feeling is surprisingly good.

Jack’s far from done with him, though. Rhys hears the sound of a zipper, and feels himself grabbed by the hips and hauled further up onto the sink.

“Can’t believe I’m saying this, but squeeze your legs together, pumpkin.” Rhys does as he’s told, locking his knees, and he feels Jack’s slicked up cock between his thighs. There’s a sigh from behind him as Jack begins to move, sliding against the tender skin of his legs. “God, there are so many parts of you that I’d love to _wreck,_ Rhysie. Wanna fuck that cute mouth of yours- you’d look good with my dick down your throat. Bet you’re great at suckin’ cock too. You’ve got the lips for it. Are you?”

Spent as he is, Rhys feels a flutter of arousal in his stomach. “Y-yeah,” he says, legs shaking with the effort of keeping them in place.

Jack moves his hips faster, panting as he does so. “Would love to fuck your tight little ass too. Fuck you ‘till you scream and beg me for more, then cum inside you and eat you out until you _cry.”_ He’s unravelling, thrusts coming less and less regularly, fingers on Rhys’ hips, leaving little crescent marks where his nails dig into the skin there. “Oh, _fuck.”_

With a full body shudder, he comes over the back of Rhys’ thighs, warm and wet. They both stay there for a moment, leaning against the sink and catching their breath, before Jack pulls himself off of Rhys, smacking his ass. Rhys groans softly, not quite willing or able to get up yet, even though he can feel semen drying on his legs. He reaches for the paper towels, pulling out one or two to wipe his legs off with.

As he cleans himself off, he’s aware of Jack eyeing him up, smirking. He rolls his eyes, and pulls up his pajama pants, flushing slightly as he does so.

“... So,” he mutters, not quite knowing the appropriate thing to say.

“So,” Jack mimics, stepping closer. “You live around here, yeah?”

“Uh.” It’s Jack’s turn to roll his eyes. He gestures for Rhys to hold out his arm, and pulls a pen out of his pocket. With deft ease, he scribbles a number on Rhys’ arm, and raises an eyebrow when he sees the look of confusion on Rhys’ face.

“It’s my phone number, genius,” he says, and Rhys’ eyes widen in understanding. “As nice as this was, it would be even nicer to fuck you in a place that’s not _completely_ germ-riddled.”

Rhys looks from his arm to the man in front of him. “O-okay.” He grins sheepishly. “I, uh. Should probably get going, though. I have a class, like. Really early tomorrow morning.” With a nod of acknowledgement, and ignoring Jack’s slightly mocking laughter, Rhys beat a hasty retreat out of the bathroom, out of the K-Mart, and back to his apartment.

His phone number. And the promise that they’d definitely be doing all of _that_ again. Rhys lays back down in his bed, flushing as he remembers the things Jack had said to him. His legs and backside are slightly sore, and there are bruises forming at his hips, and he feels _amazing._

It’s at that moment that he realizes he left the store without actually purchasing any of the groceries he’d gone there for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to write a short continuation to this and it ended up being longer than the original piece rip me. also, when will ao3 start supporting emojis.

Rhys falls asleep basically as soon as he gets back to his apartment, which is good because he needs to be awake in around four hours, but bad because it means he wakes up in the morning with incriminating evidence from the previous night still present on his body. When he gets out of bed and his legs stick together, he realizes with disgust that he’s still got dried cum and lube on him. Rhys gives himself a cursory wash with a wet towel, and promises to take a shower immediately when he gets home, because  _ ew. _

Unfortunately, his fixation on that particular sensation means that Rhys forgets the  _ other _ marker of what he did last night. He’s sitting next to Vaughn at the kitchen table, and they’re both shoveling cereal into their mouths as fast as humanly possible, when Vaughn suddenly gestures at Rhys’ arm with his spoon.

“Okay, spill. What’s up with that?” He asks, and when Rhys follows his gaze, he’s horrified to see that Jack’s phone number is still written plainly on him in dark blue ink.

“Uh.” Every moment he spends hesitating while searching for an answer only makes him more suspicious, Rhys realizes. “It’s… a phone number.”

Vaughn rolls his eyes. “No offence, bro, but I can kinda tell that. I mean, who’s is it? Where’d you get it from?” He leans in closer, and Rhys also realizes he’s just incriminated himself further by avoiding the question. 

“I, uh. Couldn’t sleep last night, so I went around the block to the store over there. There was this guy there, and it was like 3 a.m. so we were the only people there, and we talked a bit, and he gave me his number.” It’s not technically a lie, but it does leave out the slightly more embarrassing details of the encounter. Unfortunately, Vaughn has known him for far too long. His raised eyebrow and look of disbelief convey all the questions his mouth isn’t asking. “Wemayhavealsohookedupinthebathroom. Just a little bit.”

Rhys covers his face with his hands and sinks down lower into his chair, flushing bright red. Vaughn seems stuck between laughing and being appalled, and covers both bases by choking on his cereal, coughing loudly as he processes what Rhys has just told him.

_ “Dude.  _ What the  _ hell.” _

“It’s not my proudest moment, okay? But you should’ve seen the guy, man. Like, underwear model fantasy meets hot dad fantasy. And his hands were-”

Vaughn frantically cuts him off, laughing nervously. “Okay, we’re rapidly approaching TMI territory here. But seriously? You’re not really thinking about calling this guy, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Because you know who does stuff like this? Hooks up with younger guys in convenience store bathrooms in the middle of the night?  _ Serial killers, _ bro.” He leans in conspiratorially. “I’m pretty sure there was an episode of America’s Most Wanted  _ just _ like this. I don’t wanna have to come down to the morgue in two weeks to identify your body because you just  _ had _ to live out your sugar baby fantasies, dude. I don’t even know where the morgue _ is.” _

Part of Rhys is sure Vaughn is either wrong or joking, or both. But another part of him, the annoyingly anxious part, makes him think that there’s a chance he might be right. What did he know about Jack, anyway?  _ He likes guys, he’s  _ really _ good at fingering, and he’s kind of a douchebag _ mostly summed it up. Rhys frowns down at his arm.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he mumbles. “I probably shouldn’t call him. No way of knowing if he’s got a terrifying torture chamber somewhere in his house. He might make a wallet out of his skin. I don’t wanna be a wallet, bro.”

“Or he might make a bracelet out of your teeth.” Shuddering at the mental image, Rhys goes back to eating his cereal. He’ll scrub the number off after breakfast, and put the whole thing behind him. It’s better that way.

 

* * *

He scrubs off the number, but not before putting it in his phone. No picture, no notes, just the name “Jack”, and 10 digits that stare at him incriminatingly whenever Rhys goes to look at his contacts. His stomach drops, knowing that despite his best friend’s wishes, he’s potentially putting himself in danger, but Rhys can’t get the guy out of his head. He can’t forget the smirk, sharp and self-assured, the string of pet names, the feel of Jack on him and  _ inside _ him, and the promises he made about them fucking  _ properly _ next time.

When he gets back after his morning class, Rhys makes good on his promise to get clean. The water is welcomingly warm when he steps into the shower, and Rhys braces his head against the wall, letting it wash over him. His thighs are still slightly raw, from both him being fucked, and from the mess left on them from last night. Pressing them together causes a pleasant chafing ache that sends tingles up his spine, and makes his dick perk up in interest.

Rhys grabs the temperature knob, and turns it down to the lowest possible setting, shivering as the water turns icy. It has the desired effect though- the half-chub he was sporting flags, killing any arousal he was feeling. He can deal with this. He’s got a handle on it. He’ll be fine.

 

* * *

He's not fine. Rhys avoids masturbating for around a week before the strain of sexual frustration becomes too much for him, eating away at his self-control like a weak acid.

Still not wanting to give into his compulsion to ride his favorite toy into the floor while thinking of Jack, Rhys settles for something less potentially dangerous. He takes out his phone, and types out a quick message.

> (4:50 p.m.) Hey, are you going out tonight?
> 
>  
> 
> (4:50 p.m.)  **fi:** i just handed in a 20 page paper on “ethics in litigations” so
> 
> (4:51 p.m.)  **fi:** i really, really need to get smashed. comin along?
> 
>  
> 
> (4:51 p.m.) Wouldn’t miss it.

After a moment’s thought, he also sends a text to Vaughn.

> (4:43 p.m.) I’m probably gonna bring someone home tonight. That ok?
> 
>  
> 
> (4:43 p.m.)  **bro:** make sure you're quiet or i s2g i’ll dump cold water on u to wake u up tomorrow.
> 
>  
> 
> (4:43 p.m.) You’re the best

He spends 45 minutes getting ready to go, picking out a combination of clothing that won’t immediately be described as “hideous” or “an affront to fashion, seriously, who taught you how to dress yourself” by Fiona and Sasha, and doing his hair. When he goes to slick it back more convincingly, his hand falters on the tube of gel.

_ Oh my god, get over yourself,  _ he thinks, frowning.  _ It’s literally just hair product. Forget about him. _

When Fiona pulls up to the front of his building and sees his hair hanging loose around his head, she raises and eyebrow, but thankfully doesn’t question it.

 

* * *

The club they go to is one they frequent a lot. It’s noisy and crowded, sure, but Fiona is a friend of the owner, so their drinks are always discounted, and if there’s one thing that Rhys is willing to overlook the occasional sweaty meathead for, it’s cheap alcohol. Especially if it’s not on his tab.

He raises his shotglass, and grins, shouting over the music, “to Fiona. May she continue to buy me drinks for as long as possible, before law school makes her broke like the rest of us.”

“Whatever,” Fiona snorts derisively. “In five years I’m going to be defending the victims of this corrupt system while you’re selling your soul to advance in the corporate world.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Saul Goodman.” Both of them knock back their drinks at once, with varying levels of ease. Rhys winces as what tastes like tequila and  _ whiskey _ (seriously??) burns its way down his throat. Fiona is already reaching for another shot, and Rhys joins her, handling the drink slightly better the second time. 

Sasha, at the perfect age to be designated driver, looks on with more than a little jealousy. “I think Fi’s gonna be here a while,” she says. “Wanna go dance? You always make me look  _ way _ better than I actually am.”

“Hey, I’m not  _ terrible,”  _ Rhys counters, already standing up. Fiona, who has downed at least 4 shots so far, laughs.

“You have all the grace of a wet noodle in a wind tunnel,” she says. Scowling, but still in high spirits, Rhys follows Sasha out to the dance floor.

The bass thrums through his body, drowning out most other noise, and Rhys lets himself cut loose, shimmying and grinding amongst the sea of bodies. The club isn’t his favorite scene, but half an hour out on the dance floor is enough to make him forget almost anything, especially with just enough alcohol coursing through him to make him feel pleasantly buzzed.

Yes, he’s not the best dancer ever, but after a few songs, he still manages to catch someone’s eye. The man is probably in his early 30’s, with a pleasant smile and a strong jaw. He makes his way over to Rhys, putting an exploratory hand on his waist, and Rhys smiles, letting him. Another hand joins, and good, this is good. This is just what he needed, the firm press of a body at his back, grinding and writhing against him to the beat of the music, hands holding him still and trailing up his chest. 

The man does everything short of dry humping him out on the dance floor, and at the end of the night, is even nice enough to pay for the cab ride back to Rhys’ apartment.

 

* * *

The next morning, Rhys wakes up with a bad taste in his mouth, feeling slightly sticky. He's alone in his bed- the man he’d brought home had left after they’d fucked without much argument.

He gropes around on his bedside table for his phone, and sees a message from Sasha.

> (11:47 p.m.)  **sashaaa:** A married lesbian couple took fiona home with them.
> 
> (11:47 p.m.) **sashaaa:** I hate u guys so much.
> 
> (12:15 a.m.)  **sashaaa:** Everyones getting some but me. :/

Laughing out loud, Rhys types back a hasty message of apology, and takes another moment to think back on what exactly happened the previous night. The man was decent in bed, scratching a persistent itch that had been driving Rhys crazy. He'd pulled Rhys’ hair when Rhys had sucked him off, and pushed him down on his face while fucking Rhys from behind. He came. Rhys came. It had been nice.

He’d left a folded note on Rhys’ bedside table. Rhys opens it, and squints at the script inside.

_ Call me,  _ it says. A phone number is scrawled messily on the paper. Rhys crumples it up and tosses it into his wastebasket without a second look.

 

* * *

“Nice” isn't enough.

Another week passes, and although Rhys ended his moratorium on masturbation, he still can't find anything but temporary satisfaction from it.

He lays on his back, sliding a large, bright yellow dildo in and out of himself with his prosthetic hand, jerking off furiously with his flesh one. The heat building in him is unbearable; it has been for a while, now. Rhys conjures up every dirty image he can think of, trying to speed up his orgasm. Porn, memories of past boyfriends, one-night stands- it's not working for him.

“Fuck,” he grits out, and turns over, propping himself up on his knees and shoulders. This angle is a little better- he trades maximum motor control for the ability to hit his prostate dead on, and moans as he keeps fucking himself.

It's still not enough. It isn't enough until he desperately conjures up a fresher memory- him bent over a sink, Jack’s cock slipping between his thighs. A low voice in his ears making filthy promises.

_ “Fuck,”  _ he says again, louder, and comes all over his hand. 

As he rolls back over onto his side, pulling his pants and underwear back up, Rhys realizes that he can’t keep doing this.

 

* * *

_ Well. Here goes nothing.  _

Rhys takes a deep breath, and texts Jack’s number.

> (12:05 p.m.) You’re not a serial killer, are you?
> 
>  
> 
> (12:08 p.m.)  **jack:** who the hell is this
> 
> (12:08 p.m.)  **jack:** ?? rhysie?? that u?
> 
> (12:09 p.m.)  **jack:** took ur sweet time textin me kitten
> 
>  
> 
> (12:09 p.m.) Would you just answer the question?
> 
>  
> 
> (12:09 p.m.) **jack:** no im not a serial killer. jesus h christ kiddo
> 
> (12:10 p.m.) **jack:** u’ve been watching 2 many true crime shows

Even though he knows there’s no real hard evidence behind Jack’s assertion, it still puts Rhys at ease. Just a little bit. Enough to make what he’s about to do seem less unreasonable.

> (12:10 p.m.) **jack:** so what is this? tryna get to know me better or 
> 
> (12:10 p.m.)  **jack:** whats a good name for a reverse booty call
> 
> (12:10 p.m.)  **jack:** dick call sounds stupid but yknow. is this one of those

The way Jack types is almost as obnoxious as the way he speaks, Rhys decides. But god, talking to the man again is already causing lazy heat to stir in his stomach. He’s frustrated, almost unbearably so, and has been for the last few weeks, alternatingly suppressing and fending it off poorly.

_ It’s just a hookup. Just once, to get it all out, then it’s back to jerking off and the club scene. _

> (12:12 p.m.) Are you still interested? I didn’t text you for like, 2.5 weeks.
> 
>  
> 
> (12:12 p.m.) **jack:** depends. is ur ass still as tight  & perky as it was the last time i fucked you?

Rhys’ fingers hover on the keys, about to type something back, when he gets an idea. He rolls over onto his stomach, gets his knees underneath him, and slides his pants down his hips, exposing the curve of his rear. Less than a minute later, a picture which would be  _ very  _ incriminating in the wrong hands is making its way to Jack’s phone.

> (12:14 p.m.) You tell me ;)
> 
>  
> 
> (12:15 p.m.)  **jack:** well shit
> 
> (12:15 p.m.)  **jack:** someones feelin randy  & far be it from me to deny help to a man in need 
> 
> (12:16 p.m.)  **jack:** hang on ill text u my address

When the location of Jack’s apartment pops up, Rhys recognizes it as being one of the nice complexes all the way across town. A note of worry creases his brow, but he smooths it down, and focuses on the biggest problem.

> (12:16 p.m.) You're pretty far away...
> 
>  
> 
> (12:16 p.m.)  **jack:** so?? dont u have a car or smth
> 
>  
> 
> (12:17 p.m.) As pretty as my ass is, it's also basically completely broke.
> 
> (12:17 p.m.) So, no. You could come over to my place…?
> 
>  
> 
> (12:17 p.m.)  **jack:** no offense but ur neighborhood is like totally gross
> 
> (12:18 p.m.)  **jack:** i only go there cuz mine doesnt have 24hr stores
> 
> (12:18 p.m.) **jack:** gimme your address. ill call u a cab

Rhys shoots him back his own address, and upon getting an assurance that the taxi would be there in 15 minutes, takes a moment to clean up a bit. He combs his hair back so it looks at least mostly respectable, polishes his prosthetic arm so the fingers shine, and dresses himself down in a pair of teal sweatpants and a bright yellow hoodie, not bothering to put on underwear or a shirt.

When he’s checked and double-checked himself at least 5 times, Rhys leaves a note behind for Vaughn, and goes to stand outside the front door of his building. After a minute or two, a taxi rolls up to the curb and he slides inside, ignoring the nervous anticipation that’s steadily building up inside of him as he’s driven through the city. 

By all rights, the amount of planning put into this hookup should make him feel less on edge about it, but it doesn't. He’s nervous, something only mitigated by the fact that he's horny, cock already semi-hard and leaking, a wet spot that he hopes isn't too noticeable forming on the front of his pants.

Jack is waiting for him in the lobby of the apartment building when he gets there, and Rhys is only slightly ashamed to admit that seeing him there makes his dick twitch in interest. As much as he’s tried to avoid thinking about Jack, as much as he knows this is a  _ bad  _ idea, god, he wants it. He’s buzzing with energy, a sensation that only intensifies when Jack grins lazily at him, and slings an arm around his waist.

“Heey, sweetheart,” he says, casually groping Rhys’ ass through his sweatpants as he steers them both towards the elevator.

“Hi.” Rhys takes a moment to look more closely at the man, taking in the hair which is  _ just _ too perfectly tousled for that look to be natural, the one streak of grey that stands out at his forehead, and the oddly shaped scar on his face that he hadn’t noticed before. It’s honestly unfair how everything about Jack is attractive, even the things which would normally  _ not  _ be, and Rhys suddenly feels very underdressed next to Jack’s four layers (really??) of rumpled, well-worn clothing.

When Jack pulls him into the elevator and selects the button for the penthouse, Rhys realizes that he is almost certainly in Trouble.

“You live there” He asks, trying to keep his voice from squeaking.

Jack laughs. “I  _ own _ this building,” he says, before pushing Rhys against the wall and kissing him hard enough to steal the air from his lungs.

Oh, he’s in  _ so _ much trouble, but Rhys can’t bring himself to care. Jack’s lips are firm and demanding, and his hands wander all over Rhys’ body as they kiss, groping him thoroughly, rubbing up and down his sides. As Jack’s mouth moves down the side of Rhys’ neck, he slides a leg in between Rhys’ and grinds dirtily.

The elevator dings, and Rhys finds himself pushed along by an insistent hand on the small of his back. As he stumbles forwards, he takes a moment to gape in awe at the living space in front of him. The decoration just toes the line between stylish and gaudy, but it’s immediately obvious that whoever lives in the apartment is  _ loaded.  _

“This place is beautiful,” he can’t help but say, eyes wide.

Jack pinches his rear, and laughs again when Rhys yelps in indignation. “That’s reeal nice of you, babe, but I wanna be inside you like 20 minutes ago. Bedroom’s that way, chop chop.” He actually snaps his fingers in impatience, and it’s exactly the type of douchey behavior that for whatever ungodly reason makes Rhys feel more turned on than he knew was possible.

The bedroom is just as fancy as the rest of the house, and Rhys doesn’t see any of it as he’s pushed down onto the bed, face first, with Jack clambering after him. Panting, Rhys rolls over onto his back, propping himself up on his hands, and lets his legs fall open. His sweatpants have slipped slightly down his hips, and the red tip of his erection peeks out over the waistband, oozing precum all over his stomach in a way that makes Rhys feel like kind of a slut. It’s a good feeling.

The way Jack’s eyes have dilated to thin rings of blue and green around his pupils is incredibly gratifying. Jack crawls up and over him, caging him in with long arms and legs, and kisses him again, fierce and demanding, sliding his pants further down his legs. When Rhys’ cock springs free, Jack grabs it, running a thumb across the tip.

“No underwear, huh? I gotta say, ‘desperate’ is a good look for you.” He casually strokes Rhys’ dick as he talks. “I could've had you anywhere I wanted, couldn't I? Right?” He leans down farther, sucks at Rhys’ neck where he had been before in a way that makes Rhys gasp and squirm. “Should've made you ride me in the middle of the lobby. You would've liked that, wouldn't you?”

He can’t deny how the idea makes him feel. Public sex isn’t a turnoff on its own, but with Jack, it’s more than that. Rhys can’t exactly place his finger on what’s different, but he doesn’t have the clearest head at the moment. “I’ve been thinking about your, oh,  _ yes- _ your hands- the last time-”

Jack grinds down against him, letting Rhys feel the substantial bulge in his jeans. “You want ‘em inside you?”

_ “Yes.”  _ Jack reaches towards the bedside table, grabbing a bottle of lube. He takes his time squirting it onto his fingers, letting Rhys watch. There’s a sense of control Jack’s exuding now that he didn’t have before, a result of being in his own home undoubtedly. He circles a finger lightly around Rhys’ hole before pushing in, wolfish grin on his face.

For his part, Rhys is perfectly happy to let him take control. He arches his back slightly, and holds his legs farther apart as Jack works him open. It’s faster than it was the last time, Jack’s long fingers working deftly. It’s not the main act this time, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still  _ good. _

“When you finger yourself, do you think about me?” Jack’s voice is low and sinful in his ear, and  Rhys bites his lip as the now two digits in him brush against his prostate. “On your back, fucking yourself with one hand, the other over your mouth to keep your roommate from hearing you...”

Rhys flushes. Jack’s not wrong, except...

“I don’t use my fingers,” he mumbles. Jack tilts his head to the side slightly, pulling out as he sits up.

“That so? You didn’t deny thinking about me, though, did ya?” A hand at the waist of his jeans, undoing the button,  sliding the zipper down. “In any case, that’s probably for the best. I’m a little bigger than your fingers, kiddo. How ‘bout you get your shirt off, huh?”

Sitting up a little further, Rhys pulls his jacket over his head, not bothering with unzipping it. When he looks at Jack again, he sees the man sitting there, admiring Rhys’ naked body, holding his cock in hand. It’s a beautiful thing, hard and thick, the tip red and leaking, and Rhys wants- he doesn’t even know. He wants it in his mouth. He wants it in his ass. He just wants it  _ inside him  _ already _.  _

“C’mon, sweetheart. Ass up.”

Shifting to put more weight on his shoulders, Rhys lies down and lifts his ass higher. Jack grabs his thighs, spreading them apart, lifting them as he lines himself up, and thrusts home.

It’s exactly how Rhys imagined it would be, except not at all. There’s a blunt feeling of stretching, and his hole twitches around the thick intrusion. It’s everything he wanted, and  _ more  _ on top of that, Jack’s fingers digging into the sensitive meat of his legs, holding him still everywhere it mattered, so Rhys can only flail and squirm against the silky sheets. His cock is aching, untouched and lying against his stomach as Jack pointedly ignores it. Warm hips come to rest against his ass as Jack bottoms out with a small sigh.

“I thought you’d be tight,” Jack grits out, “but damn. You’re something else, you know that?” He pulls out, slams back in, and laughs. “You’re a bona fide  _ twink, _ Rhysie.”

Rhys clenches down on the thick cock inside him, feeling something close to pride when Jack lets out a low moan. “You’re such an ass,” he says. “C’mon, I- I need it. Need you to hold me down, mark me up, just-  _ fuck me.” _

“Hah. Demanding, too.” Jack’s hips snap, and Rhys’ eyes roll back in his head as it hits the pillow beneath him. “Luckily for you, I happen to like slutty, demanding twinks.” He picks up a near brutal pace, slamming Rhys against the mattress, bending his legs forwards until Rhys is almost folded in half.

The myriad of sensations assaulting him threaten to overwhelm him. The friction of Jack moving against him, the burning heat pooling in his gut, the slight pain of Jack’s nails digging into his legs, and the exhilaration of breath being driven out of his lungs with every sharp thrust. Rhys wants to say  _ something,  _ but when he opens his mouth his head is so fuzzy that all he can do is moan. His prosthetic arm grasps at the bedsheets, and he rakes his other hand down his chest, fingernails catching a nipple, leaving it red and sore.

He might be drooling on himself. He can’t quite tell.

Jack seems disheveled as well, albeit less so. He’s still mostly dressed (something which by all rights shouldn’t be a turnon, but is anyway), and there’s sweat trickling down his forehead, dripping off of his nose and down his neck. His teeth are bared in a wide, predatory smile, and his hair has come loose from its styled imperfection. 

And despite everything, he’s still talking, a filthy stream of consciousness that keeps pouring forth. Rhys can’t hear most of it, only picking up on a few words here and there that nonetheless make him dizzy with arousal.

Jack comes first, burying himself inside of Rhys and gasping out curses. He takes a moment or two to catch his breath before he pulls out, leaving Rhys still hard and wanting, and smiles. For a second, Rhys narrows his eyes. 

_ Typical. He’ll fuck me, but literally won’t lift a finger to help me finish. _

Then, Jack grabs him by the hips and flips him over onto his stomach.

“Jack, what are you-” Rhys feels himself shoved up onto his knees, and two strong hands grabbing his backside. “Wait a second-”

“I made a promise, remember princess?” Jack’s breath is hot on his ass. “Just relax and let daddy take care of you.”

Before Rhys can say anything about the potential inappropriateness of either nickname, he feels something warm and wet trace down the cleft of his ass. “That’s- oh. _ Oh.” _

And it’s not like he’s never been rimmed before, but this is different. Jack isn’t an inexperienced, slightly inebriated twentysomething, and he’s doing  _ something  _ with his tongue that’s making Rhys’ toes curl. He’s licking his own cum out of Rhys’ ass as he goes, too, and Rhys has to bite the knuckles of his flesh hand to keep himself from making noises he knows he’ll later regret.

Seeing Rhys stifle himself, Jack pulls back for a moment. “C’mon dollface, let it all out. You sound so  _ cute  _ when you’re about to come.” After that, he resumes his ministrations, wiggling his tongue around inside of Rhys, hot and squirming and almost unbearable. When he starts thrusting it in and out while sucking hard on Rhys’ already puffy, overstimulated hole, Rhys gives up, moaning and whimpering and thrusting his ass backwards in the hopes of getting  _ more. _

Jack’s hands are suddenly on him again, jerking him off through everything, and Rhys falls apart, babbling incoherently as he comes all over Jack’s hand and the bed underneath him. It's the best orgasm he’s had in a long time, and he slumps down onto the mattress, not caring that he’s lying in a wet puddle of his own cum, basking in the afterglow.

“That was… really good,” he mumbles. He hears Jack laugh, and then the sound of a lighter flicking open.

“Of course it was. I was fucking you,” Jack says, insufferably smug once again. “Cigarette?”

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Rhys rolls over onto his side in time to watch Jack shrugging, and taking a long drag from his own cigarette. He’s tucked himself back into his pants already, his hair is a complete mess, and he  _ still _ looks unfairly gorgeous, but Rhys is too spent for a round two to even be a thought in his mind.

He sits up, frowning at the sticky spot on his abdomen, and the soreness in his backside and legs. There are bruises on his hips, scratch marks all over his chest. Rhys thinks that he must look like a mess- he certainly feels like one- but it’s a  _ glorious _ mess.

“I should probably get going,” he says, even though he doesn’t feel like his legs could possibly support his body. “My roommate’s gonna be wondering where I am, and I specifically told him that I  _ wasn’t _ going to hook up with you, so…” 

An inscrutable look passes briefly over Jack’s face, but he shrugs, and takes another drag. The tip of his cigarette glows red when he taps it into an ashtray on one of the bedside tables.

“Gonna be kind of hard to explain  _ that,  _ then,” he says, pointing to Rhys’ neck with a smirk. Rhys reaches up and gingerly pokes at the massive hickey, just high enough to peek out from the collar of any of the shirts he usually wears. With a groan, he reaches for his jacket, ignoring Jack’s cackling laughter. “The taxi’s still downstairs, it’ll take ya home.”

“... Thank you.” Rhys coughs slightly, flushing under Jack’s lecherous gaze as he continues to dress himself. He leaves the penthouse as quickly as possible, hoping he doesn’t die of embarrassment before he manages to get home.

On the car ride home, Rhys checks his phone again, and sees an increasingly worried series of texts from Vaughn.

> (3:24 p.m.) Hey, sorry I didn’t message you earlier.
> 
> (3:24 p.m.) I was busy & didn’t have my phone.
> 
>  
> 
> (3:25 p.m.)  **bro:** i’ve been texting you for the last 2 hours dude where have you BEEN

It’s at this moment, staring down at his phone, feeling the hickey at his neck while driving home in a cab paid for by the man who put it there, that Rhys realizes that he’s fucked. In every sense of the word.

>   
>  (3:26 p.m.) So, about that. It’s actually a funny story… 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: the shots rhys and fiona are doing are based on a real recipe which sounds absolutely horrible but which i couldn't resist putting in. http://www.drinksmixer.com/drink4473.html

**Author's Note:**

> im pretty sure everyone's noticed the ridiculous quantities of product everyone in these games uses. you could poke your eye out on some of those hair spikes.
> 
> inspired by a photoset of dystopic looking kmarts & also the fact that i like putting stuff in rhys' ass
> 
> on tumblr @rhysgore. drop by and say hey or smth it makes my day.


End file.
